Title: Fearing Him
Rating: Tweens?
Pairing: Slight John/Sherlock. As a great someone or something or whatever once said: "I'm not a gay, but I'm a fan" =D
Warning: Umm…Major ass spoilers. Kind of. I didn't watch the last episode properly so I don't remember the dialogue so I've kinda IGNORED IT. MOO HAHA. Still, if someone on this planet doesn't know who Moriarty is then there is a warning here. WARNING: MORIARTY IDENTITY
Word Count: 4,825
Disclaimer: It doesn't belong to me. If it did, we wouldn't have to wait 'til freaking July.
Summary: Where Sherlock has come face to face with his nemesis, but finds it wasn't anyone he expected.
A/N: Ahh, when I was watching Sherlock right, I was distracted by a spider, so was helping mum catch it by using my superpowers to lift up the sofa with one finger (true story). It means I've almost certainly missed stuff out, like when John walked out to the pool. I'm pretty good at multitasking no matter what I say, so I was also watching the TV whilst holding the sofa and waiting for mum to finish wrestling the vicious beastie (dude, it was huge). But my first reaction wasn't "HOLY FO SHIZZ NITS JOHN IS MORIARTY!'. In fact, the thought didn't even occur to me until I was on the community site on livejournal twenty minutes later. My thoughts were actually closer to: "" 'cause it was fairly obvious what with that hideous, bulky but rather warm looking parka which John wouldn't ever, ever wear in a million years 'cause it covers up his jumpers. I can't be the only one, seriously. I don't think my mum did either because when I gasped and bit into my fists almost dropping the sofa, mum said "he's not gunna diiie. Duuur." Which meant she must have thought bomb too. I don't remember Sherlock's reaction, so I can't make a valid opinion, but people tell me its shock because he thinks John is Moriarty. I question this, 'cause I figured it out, so why shouldn't Sherlock? This is the approach I've taken here today. But I do love the idea of John as Moriarty. Also, don't remember dialogue, so bear with me.
I will now shut up.
Fearing Him
John's smile was weak as he looked at Sherlock, face grim and hands in the pockets of a coat Sherlock had never seen before in John's wardrobe, and so Sherlock's mind jumped to one horrifying conclusion and his heart stopped in his chest.
"Evening." John managed, voice dull and if John were any less than a hardened soldier, doctor and thrill seeker, Sherlock supposed he would have sounded scared. Sherlock was terrified for a second, but knew there was a bomb under that jacket and that every second longer John wore it the more his life was in danger. Therefore, Sherlock was fiendishly quick to rush up to John and rip off the coat, see the bombs and went tear them off too.
"What are you doing here?" He said urgently to the doctor as he struggled with the few clasps holding the bomb jacket in place. He made short work of it and was throwing it as far away from them as he could very soon. The force of his actions tripped the smaller man, making him tumble forward, but Sherlock caught him gently and helped him up again.
"I saw the website." John said. "You may think I'm an idiot, but I'm not that dumb."
"I definitely think you're an idiot – you were covered with bombs."
"Yes." John observed, voice sounding detached as it had done when he had shot the taxi driver, so clearly it was a voice only used when undergoing serious issues such as murder and death of your own person. This was a snippet of information Sherlock stored away almost unconsciously. John was looking at the bombs lying far away, and Sherlock followed his gaze. "Yes, I was. Funny that they push me out here draped in bombs and yet let you do that."
As if his words had been heard by the ever elusive Moriarty and his gang, when Sherlock turned back John had a red dot focused in the centre of his forehead. John saw the shock and mild panic in Sherlock's expression and knew exactly what was happening. Sherlock didn't know how to take it when John closed his eyes, obviously in his own sort of horror, in a way stereotypically found in films – when the person about to die simply closes their eyes in acceptance of the fact. This was not allowed, not today, and not to John. Sherlock spun around, hand up in the air, and yelled out to the seemingly empty swimming pools.
"I have the plans!" He said, memory stick containing the Bruce-Partington plans held high above his head. "That was what you wanted, yes?" He continued. "Come and get them, Moriarty!"
The pool was silent, bar the slow breathing of John and the steady pant of Sherlock's own breath, though Sherlock fancied that his heart beat was audible to the whole leisure centre and echoing across the entirety of England. He wasn't sure if it was the adrenaline and the rising tension caused by being made to wait or the fact a sniper was steadily aimed at his best friend's head which made Sherlock's thoughts so erratic.
It was an age before footsteps approached them, and a face Sherlock almost didn't recognise peeked out from around a corner, eyes alight with pleasure and an expression maniacal with insane humour. There was no doubt about it, from the suit to the polished shoes to the slicked back hair – before him stood Moriarty, who was no less than sweet, gay Jim whom Molly reckoned she was dating. Sherlock briefly entertained a thought of Molly, wondering if Moriarty had gotten to her too, but then decided Molly wasn't his main concern at the moment.
"Hello, Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty grinned, and Sherlock glared him down. "I see you're eager to prove yourself a knight in shining armour to your faithful companion, but still, it amounts to nothing."
Sherlock had a gun in his pocket, ready to be whipped out and aimed and shot towards this man, but something nagging at the back of his mind told Sherlock that this was not the time to get it out; it was not necessary just yet to defend himself. He tried to rationalise these thoughts, but with John's life on the line and Moriarty hardly yards in front of him and snipers aimed at Sherlock no doubt as well, Sherlock couldn't see how this wasn't the best time to produce a gun. But some sort of twisted survival instinct lodged deep inside of Sherlock made him stay still, made him compelled to reply to the murderous psychopathic genius who stood deliciously open and willing to talk before him.
"Oh, it amounts to everything." Sherlock said, feeling himself smirk and with it came shots of endorphins as he realised all over again that this was Moriarty; his equal, his opposite; his arch-nemesis, and Sherlock was going to take full pleasure in beating him once and for all. "I now see your face, and it means the world."
"You've already met me." Moriarty reminded Sherlock. "I even left you my number. A shame you didn't realise earlier – some of us may not have our lives on the line. Or, even better, that poor blind lady may not even be dead."
"That was hardly my fault, I had completed the puzzle successfully."
"Yes. Shame that she couldn't keep her mouth shut. But, it's shut now permanently so everyone is happy." At Sherlock's glare, Moriarty laughed – loud and large and malicious and full of hate, sending shivers down Sherlock's spine. "Oh, don't give me that look. Okay, maybe your pet detectives aren't exactly over the moon, but on the other hand, she's no longer suffering. She was in absolute agony while you made her wait."
Sherlock's eyes flashed dangerously and Moriarty very obviously revelled in it.
"Moriarty," Sherlock warned in a low voice, on the verge of pulling John's gun out, instinct or no, but Moriarty cut across him with a sharp laugh.
"Do you hear that?" He said to over Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock glanced at John, whose eyes were trained solidly and unblinking at Moriarty. There was a cold expression on his face, and Sherlock felt the same anger which John was showing. "Do you hear that? He still hasn't figured it out, poor little Sherlock. You're off your ball today, my dear." And he continued to giggle even when Sherlock walked closer to him menacingly.
"Figured out what?" He hissed, still aware of the snipers aimed at John and himself, so he didn't go close enough to touch the maniac, who grinned at him and tapped his nose.
"Moriarty, answer me!"
Moriarty burst out laughing all over again, as if Sherlock had told some fantastic joke. "Oh, it doesn't get old." He said. "You're so clever, but you're so, so very blind, Sherlock. Don't you see?"
"What do you want?" Sherlock replied. "Do you want me? Well, you have me! Let John go." Moriarty was still grinning wide, on the verge of tears in his wild hysterical amusement. "What do you want?" Sherlock was on the brink of grabbing Moriarty by the collar, snipers be damned, to shake him and make him answer Sherlock.
"Why don't you ask... Moriarty?" The man said, eyes fiery with delight, and Sherlock's face blanched and it only took him a moment to figure it out, but he couldn't help himself as he asked.
"What do you mean?"
The man who he had blindly assumed was Moriarty stood straight and grinned viciously towards Sherlock, but not at Sherlock. Sherlock spun, expecting to find a new man looming, perhaps with a gun aimed at John or Sherlock or both, but was slightly relieved to see just John, still watching the apparent Moriarty stand-in with his steady blue eyes. Suddenly there was a snapping sound as a gun went off, and for a second Sherlock believed Moriarty had fooled him and had gestured for them to kill John while Sherlock was watching.
But it wasn't John who had been shot down, and it wasn't Sherlock, and when he looked back he was surprised to see the fake Moriarty dead at his feet, a bullet having hit him perfectly between his eyes, killing him instantly. Sherlock whirled around, looking for Moriarty in the shadows or above his head, but saw no one but John. It was then he realised that John had seen someone shoot the other man, but yet hadn't so much as blinked. He knew that John was almost completely immune to violence, and had seen so many people be shot down when he was in Afghanistan, but it was impossible to not be surprised when someone, no matter who it is, is killed before your very eyes.
"John?" He asked, voice weak as his mind jumped to conclusions he didn't like the sound of and dismissed on sheer moral grounds. Those evil thoughts couldn't true, therefore there was no point in thinking them.
John looked up to him now, and Sherlock noticed the sniper's red dot gone from his forehead. Looking down at himself, he now saw several tracing his own chest. Those dismissed conclusions crashed back all at once and Sherlock's heart stopped again in shock and horror.
John's eyes were ever steady, his expression ever calm. Sherlock found himself bewildered at what to say as John stared him down, allowing him to come to the correct formula to the problem before speaking.
A moment passed between them, in which Sherlock felt himself alienated to the world, betrayed and hurt, something stabbing him deep and swift and in the gut. He felt he couldn't breath, and was frozen to the spot, pinned down by the red lights tracing his body dangerously.
"Bet you never saw this coming." John breathed out. Another beat passed, where all Sherlock could hear was a voice which sounded a lot like Mycroft run through his head screaming a mantra consisting solely of the word 'Idiot!'
"John." John then said, and Sherlock's eyebrows creased in confusion. John gestured to the dead man at Sherlock's feet. "John." He said. "We swapped names. I don't know his surname, but it was probably about as mundane as 'Watson' was."
"That's not possible." Sherlock replied, and John's smile was patient, calm, like he was dealing with a particularly idiotic child, but one which he had a distinct fondness of.
"No, I suppose not. Not possible for stupid, boring John Watson. It was truly a pleasure to be so usual for the first time in my life."
"But what about Harriet?" Sherlock said. "Or Mike?"
"What about them? You don't think Harry's real, do you? Mike, I admit, is real enough, but that's easily remedied."
"But your phone-"
"Beautifully done and smashed up through months of planning, Sherlock. Please, don't be stupid about this, and don't let feelings get in the way. Think. This is so possible, so beautifully done, that not even you realised. Admit that, Sherlock, please admit it to me."
Moriarty was using John's voice, but not in the same way he'd used other people's. He'd made the now dead unknown 'John' pose as Moriarty, whereas he'd made other people fear him and speak for him through threats of death. Now he was using this John's voice as his real voice. Shelock's John.
Sherlock should have known – the blind woman had told him Moriarty's voice was so soft, and the fake Moriarty was nothing if not excitable at best. Before him stood a cool man, with deep eyes, a trust worthy face, and a voice so calm and so, so soft, that Sherlock wondered how he couldn't have figured out before.
He scrunched up his eyes to think, to try to rationalise this revelation, but his head was full of memories of John Watson and himself, running through London in the dead of night, overcoming a psychosomatic limp, being mistaken time after time for a couple, solving crime after crime, grinning and laughing, watching chat shows in the dead of night whilst chewing on a Chinese, John being horrified by body parts appearing and disappearing mysteriously every time he opened the fridge, John yelling at him about running off and almost getting himself killed again, John's sarcasm as he told Sherlock not to collect those flies, they're filthy and the spiders might starve without them, think of the spiders. John being his soundboard as he bounced off ideas, John making him watch those horrific Bond films, John; the only one who could put up with him, even if he played violin just to wake John up during those particularly boring nights. John. John. John.
John was now cupping his face, his eyes the same as before Sherlock had his revelation, nothing about him changed; nothing from the scar on his shoulder to the worry in his eyes, and Sherlock felt sick as he looked down at him now.
"Sherlock," John was saying slowly. "Sherlock, you're hyperventilating."
"Why did you shoot him?" Sherlock somehow managed, and John – no, Moriarty – was surprised at his question.
"Isn't it obvious?" He said, glancing sideways briefly towards the body. "Poor, dear John, always liked giving away the game before the game was even over."
Sherlock was shaking his head, his legs trembling and threatening to cause him to collapse. "No," he was saying. "No, you're John. This doesn't make sense."
"Of course it makes sense. It always does to you, doesn't it, Sherlock? What does the evidence tell you?" John said gently, still looking like he was simply worried about Sherlock's health as he always did after Sherlock had spent as many as 40 hours awake. Sherlock didn't want to look at him, not when he knew, not when all the evidence pointed to him.
"John, please." But Sherlock didn't know what ended that sentence. It could have been anything from, 'John, please stop fucking around' to 'John, please get milk on the way home because we've run out again'.
"Sherlock," John said, tone practically a whisper, and he was a hairsbreadth away and Sherlock couldn't stand to be so close. "Sherlock, please, don't be an idiot. Don't be like everyone else."
Sherlock didn't know how to handle this, couldn't think how to go about handling this, not when all he could smell was John, all he could feel was John's hands on his face, all he could see was John's innocent expression, all he could remember was the last few months were it was just John and him and some wonderful murderer, and now that they'd crashed into just a wonderful murderer and Sherlock, Sherlock didn't know how to count his blessings anymore.
"I know who you are." He said, chanting it to himself, trying to convince himself that John was a bad guy. "I know who you are, and I can stop you."
"Oh, Sherlock," John said, and he was bending Sherlock's head down, and without the cognitive function helping Sherlock with his basic motor skills (instead it was all focusing on twisting itself around this devastating problem), Sherlock found himself leaning down as John came forward and lightly pressed his lips to Sherlock's temple. "Oh, Sherlock, nothing in this universe can stop me. Perhaps you need to sleep. John's kept you awake too long with his silly games. He was such a big fan, you know. Almost as big as I am."
Such a statement took far too long for Sherlock to remember that before him wasn't John, because John was lying dead at his feet, and it wasn't the right John.
Almost as though the man before him whom he thought was the right John could read his mind (a thing which the right John could never do), he just sighed, shaking his head softly and resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "He didn't exist." He breathed, and Sherlock was disgusted with himself to find that he was shaking as the words registered in his brain. "He never did."
Sherlock pushed John away, and tried to make himself think that this wasn't John, this was Moriarty, but it didn't work. It could never work when Moriarty looked like he did in some ratty, ugly cardigan and a muddy pair of jeans which Sherlock remembered him trying to put on in the middle of the living room earlier that day as Sherlock zoomed off in a swirl of coat and confidence, thinking he was that much closer to catching Moriarty out. Never in his life did he expect Moriarty to have been there all along, but he should have seen it. As soon as John appeared, so did Moriarty.
"Shit." Sherlock muttered, and John just smiled soothingly, as if Sherlock and he shared domestic bliss, and Sherlock had just stumbled home late in the evening after a bad day, to a patient, caring wife who had dinner waiting for him as always. But, as it turns out, she had laced it with arsenic because she was sick of being dragged around like a fucking dog.
"Sherlock, seeing your mind twist and bend itself around problems was beautiful, even if sometimes I had to correct you or push you along. I forget how young you are, sometimes – how much you still need to grow."
"I'm almost the same age as you." Sherlock countered, suddenly feeling the claustrophobia as Moriarty who was John stood far too close, spoke far too softly, with too much familiarity. He wanted to get away and to struggle himself free, but he was trapped by the soft touches which felt like iron vices on his temple where John's hands were resting, light and steady. He felt the faintly sour breath of the smaller man's on his face and it smelled of John's toothpaste, Aquafresh, and reminded Sherlock how he mistreated John – it was passed midnight and yet John hadn't eaten since after breakfast the previous day, if he had even managed that.
"No, Sherlock," John replied to him after a pause, and his tone was still patient and understanding as if Sherlock was just some dumb kid who can't get it through his thick skull, and Sherlock felt it anger him, but at the same time it made him feel uneasy – he'd never recognised any noteworthy amount of intelligence in John, yet here he was, patronising Sherlock, saying he still had so much to learn, showing Sherlock how much he'd fooled the detective and how very deep he'd pushed himself into Sherlock's existence. "No, Sherlock, you're still developing, you're still creating yourself and it is marvellous because I keep on having to recreate myself around you. I do wish John wasn't so impulsive, because if he'd just done as I'd wished he wouldn't be dead and we'd be on our merry way home, with you none the wiser. Later today we could have chased after some faint lead John would have left and it would have been exciting and wonderful and usual for the pair of us. Now, that is impossible, obviously, but it would have been fun."
"You're a criminal." And there was the base of it all – Moriarty was killing people, or helping people kill others, like a twisted 'help me get rid of my brother-in-law, Mr. Moriarty' service and that didn't sit right with Sherlock. Before, when Jim Moriarty was a name and no face, or even had the face of Jim from IT, then it was exhilarating and breathtaking with the thrill of such a strong opponent. What made it all even better was that John was standing right by his side, and for once Sherlock had so much to lose and it was remarkable and tremendous and how Sherlock felt fantastic. Now, though, something worse was raging inside Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't know whether he was feeling more betrayed than angry, or more sick than betrayed. He was weighing up the pros and cons of throttling the bastard in front of him right now, even if the snipers were still trained solely on him, because it didn't matter any more, and hadn't mattered as soon as John Whats-his-face had been shot by order of the seemingly inconspicuous man before Sherlock now. He wasn't John, and hadn't been John for as long as Sherlock had known him. Like Moriarty said, John Watson had never existed. It was simply typical that Sherlock's only real friend turned out to be the most dangerous criminal he'd ever met, Mycroft included.
"I'm a criminal." Moriarty nodded, agreeing and he patted Sherlock's cheek softly in a habit which he must have gotten off Mrs Hudson, the amount of times their landlady had performed such a gesture on the both of them. Such a familiar, domestic act put the detective on edge.
"Why haven't you made a move before now?" Sherlock asked, though it was a weak question because he felt he already knew. Judging by the certain level of disappointment on Moriarty's face, Moriarty knew it too. He knew that with this shaking of the status quo, Sherlock had lost a large amount of faith in his deductive skills and was second guessing himself with his deductions. Moriarty pointed this out, leaning ever closer, speaking ever quieter, his words just for Sherlock because the rest of the world can go to hell.
"This is why, Sherlock. I have no idea why but John Watson got to you and it was both beautiful and horrific and before even I could control it you were as obsessed with him as I am with you. Sherlock, taking him away from you so soon wouldn't do your health any good, and I wish John was alive so I could shoot him again for ruining everything." Moriarty sighed and took a breath which was half shared by Sherlock and half made of Sherlock's own heavy inhalations. "Sherlock, I care for you greatly, and I'm not lying when I say that I'm your biggest fan, but sometimes even I have to admit that you are so dense." And there was a flash of John Watson, in the tone, the intonation, the fond strain to his speech that suggested he didn't mind quite as much as he perhaps should. Sherlock found it all too much and in that moment he finally found the strength to push Moriarty away.
The snipers didn't go off because Moriarty wasn't in any immediate danger, and it just angered Sherlock all the more as the time came for him to whip out his gun and aim it as steadily as he could in between Moriarty's eyes. Moriarty was as serene as ever, as long-suffering and tolerant as John was of Sherlock and Sherlock was horrified to see his hand shake at such a thought. He glared at Moriarty, trying to see a vicious killer of indescribable intelligence and devious methods of avoiding detection in those eyes but it didn't work when he was wearing that shirt, and that cardigan and those pair of jeans and especially that face which Sherlock had seen every morning for months now, had seen every expression which crossed over that facade, knew every tick with intimate details and could read all it's features like an open book.
But now, Sherlock couldn't read it to save his life. A new person had stepped into that body with no ticks or habits or give-aways or anything resembling what had been there before, and it made a gnawing feeling of despair rise up in Sherlock's gut. Moriarty knew Sherlock couldn't bring himself shoot that face, not when Sherlock had come to trust and, in Sherlock's own way, even respect it, which was half way to a miracle.
They locked eyes, and in Moriarty's was an intensity and an open passion which Sherlock had never seen in a pair of eyes – unaware, even, that such a cliché could be brought to life so well. He tried to stare Moriarty down in the same way he always had John, but John would flinch away after a short while, eyes burning or just feeling uncomfortable, whichever was the reason. Sherlock hadn't expected Moriarty to look away as John had, and Moriarty didn't disappoint. Slowly, as the eye lock grew in duration and tension, Sherlock began to draw distinct lines which split Moriarty from John and allowed him to accept that John was just a memory now, and a wonderful one too, but was something in the past which must be left there. He wouldn't allow the memories they shared be ruined by tonight's enlightening events. It was selfish and irrational of Sherlock, he knew, to do such a thing and act as if John hadn't always been Moriarty and had actually survived with him as John Watson, existing together through thick and thin and even telling Mycroft he wasn't going to spy on Sherlock for any amounts of money just because he was John Watson and that was something he could never do to someone. Sherlock needed to keep those memories, because it was all he could do to remind himself that the man in front of him wasn't John, even if he was wearing John's face.
Sherlock's decision was clear to Moriarty, Sherlock knew, as soon as Sherlock made it. The man didn't blink when Sherlock's aim changed from pointing the gun at Moriarty to facing it towards something which lay just passed the prone, very dead body of Moriarty's stand-in. The bomb jacket looked innocent enough; almost harmless from this distance, and it would now serve a higher purpose of going against its maker and assisting Sherlock instead.
"Why did you bother with the jacket?" Sherlock asked briefly, though his interests were not particularly swayed by the subject. Neither, it seemed, were those of Moriarty.
"To see your reaction." Moriarty replied without missing a beat, and Sherlock's grip tightened around John's gun.
He looked to Moriarty and Moriarty looked back, calm and understanding and waiting for Sherlock to do it. The seconds ticked by and nothing happened. Sherlock could see a smirk playing at Moriarty's lips, but the man kept it small, kept his smug emotions to himself, and was gentle and passive again as if he were merely an observer to a wondrous spectacle rather than at risk of being blown to high hell.
Sherlock knew Moriarty didn't believe he was going to do it, and so as Moriarty dared a step closer to Sherlock once again, Sherlock pulled the trigger.
Lestrade had visited him in the hospital in between Sherlock's ever present landlady keeping Sherlock company, or Mycroft who was angry Sherlock had walked into such a dangerous situation, or Molly who was mourning over the death of her beloved Jim (though Sherlock felt she had some sort of strange and sick closure in being able to dissect him herself), or Sarah who was freaking out over John.
Lestrade said that they found Moriarty but John was still no where to be seen. The Moriarty was probably a fake one as further investigation had shown he was shot instead of simply caught up in the blast of the bomb. The real Moriarty probably took John somewhere, but it's okay 'cause we'll track them down.
Sherlock was lucky to survive, apparently, and this was something they told him almost everyday he was forced to remain in that hospital.
It took a few arguments with Mycroft and two-weeks worth of constant abusing of the doctors and nurses and other help to convince them he was physically functioning, mentally capable and irritating enough to send him home. Lestrade and Mrs Hudson helped him because his leg was bandaged up, having been full of shrapnel before he arrived in the emergency room and impossible to walk on for a week. Even now, he needed crutches to support himself completely.
He waved Lestrade off when the last of his bags had been put upstairs in the flat, saying he was fine and could make it up the stairs without a baby sitter, thank you very much. Lestrade, in reply, said he wasn't going to involve Sherlock in any cases for a while in case he hurts himself more. In fact, Lestrade went so far as to promise such a thing. As he turned to leave Sherlock scowled at his back, but it didn't matter too much because Sherlock knew that, as stubborn as Lestrade was, the police would soon find out they were out of their depth and that people dying were more important than Sherlock's stupid leg.
There were other injuries of course, like a few blows to his head and a long wound on his arm where a bullet had grazed it after he'd blown up the bomb, but it missed as Sherlock was blown backwards with the blast.
Others were a few burns, some scratches, but he'd ended up going straight into the pool, where he was fished out a few long minutes later by Mycroft himself who, with an army of men, were just a bit too late. His brother was livid at Sherlock's idiocy and protective in a weird way, refusing to let go of Sherlock's arm until the ambulance came, and he then asked where John was because the man had also dipped out from under Mycroft's radar about the same time as Sherlock had, even when that was close to impossible for a Holmes, never mind for an ordinary person. Sherlock hadn't answered directly, but looked around the rubble, trying to see through the smoke and the water in his eyes as he told Mycroft John was simply 'gone'. For what must be the first time in his life, Mycroft didn't understand what that meant, and Sherlock was partly stunned and partly outraged by the fact Moriarty had even fooled his older brother.
Mrs Hudson bustled around the flat a bit as he walked in, saying that this all needs a good tidying up, yes indeed, but not until you're better young man, then asked if he wanted any tea.
Absently, he nodded, eyes scanning the room wondering if looking at John's stuff would make him sad or angry or both, and Mrs Hudson saw the raw expression of confusion on his face. She patted his cheeks, and it was that gesture which made him wince more than the idea of any of John's belongings.
She sighed as she removed her hand, saying "He'll be home soon." But she didn't know what she was talking about, and she dodged passed him to go downstairs to make that tea, no doubt he was to expect sandwiches and cakes too, before he could reply angrily – not that he really wanted to.
When he closed the door behind her and turned to make himself back at home, he almost tripped on something soft which caught on his injured leg. Catching himself on the wall, he picked it up and saw it was John's ugly oatmeal jumper. He found it was anger that flared as he looked at it and briefly Sherlock thought of burning it.
End
A/N: Sheesh, this was the second Sherlock fic I started, and it's the eighth to be finished. But once more JOHN'S NOT DEAD YEEEY. Only evil. Fun, fun, fun.
I know people have done it before, but the concept is so delicious – sweet, silly John with his adorable, ugly little jumpers, and underneath the guise is EVIL AND BETRAYAL AND VILE NASTY PLAIN NOT NICENESS.
I can see John's Moriarty being a lot saner than the lovely real Moriarty. Just 'cause John is so goddamn cool about everything.
Finally, I've been distracted by Hugh Grant's nose and Rupert Graves in general. He is pretty damn awesome.